Kathleen Melia, Niles

October 13, 2012

Tribune pen pal Kathleen Melia of Niles (Handout)

Age: 73

Writing letters since: Six years ago, when she began to have more free time. The Tribune has published approximately 20 of her letters. Her writing has also been featured in the Sun-Times and in magazines.

Life story in 125 words or less: Grew up 100 miles south of Denver in Pueblo, Colo., where "we were lucky if we got three inches of snow." After graduating high school in 1956, moved to Chicago to join the Franciscan Sisters of Chicago. Earned bachelor's degree in Latin from Loyola University; taught high school for 10 years. "You'd be surprised. They can get all the way to high school and not know how to read or write." Returned to Loyola and earned a master's in social work. Worked at nursing homes, helping patients adapt to their new surroundings. "If they like living there, residents are happy, families are happy, we're happy and it's beautiful to see them turn the corner."

Self Description: "Definitely a people person . . . I used to be athletic but love watching sports now." Favorite teams are the White Sox, Bears and Bulls. "I read the Sports pages cover to cover."

Writing experiences: Has always had a fondness for words. "I was the only kid in grade school who loved diagraming sentences." In high school she worked for her student paper and started a column titled "A feather in your cap." "I would write about something that students did that nobody else knew about (like volunteering or winning an award), and that was a feather in their cap."

Unique traits: Kathleen the wordsmith plays scrabble online every day even though "I lose more than I win." She enjoys chatting with her opponents and has played people from three continents.

— By Greg Cappis, Tribune reporter

Melia's latest thoughts: I have loved words and their magic for as long as I can remember. I've written a lot in my lifetime and some things even got published. But my greatest writing accomplishment took only five minutes when I was 16 years old.

My best friend, Connie, was incarcerated in detention hall after school. The year was 1955. One of our favorite nuns was monitoring the sullen group. Connie was there to write a poem, which had been required that day in English class. I paced outside the door, hoping she'd get an inspiration so we could dash down to the ice-cream parlor to join our friends.

Nothing.

Finally I whipped out my spiral notebook and dashed off a poem about mountains, rivers, trees, sunshine, a gentle breeze, a golden stallion with rippling muscles and a mournful owl hooting in the distance. That poem was loaded to make sure it filled an entire page.

My friend happily presented the smuggled piece to the nun, whose smile would have melted the snow I mercifully forgot to add to the mix.

The poem eventually came to be published in an anthology of the best poetry by high-school students around the country. Connie's fame spread far and wide. She felt terrible and wanted to confess, but we never did. Nor did we ever forget this incident, which brought us closer still.